Punch: Punch (70.1876)

190

PUNCH, OR THE LONDON CHARIVARI.

[May 13, 1876.

SELF-DENIAL.

Sarah-Maria, Betsy-Jane, and Jemimek-Anx go ever so much out of the Way every Morning to pass by the Barracks,

"as it do amuse the Children so to see the Soljiers hexercisin'!"

WHEN THE PEINCE COMES HOME.

Somebody will compose a triumphal March called " The Hero of
India."

Somebody will indite a Song of Welcome, with horn obligate,
beginning ' The Royal Hunter is once more at home."

Somebody who has a small volume of Travels in the East, will ask
permission to dedicate the same to His Royal Highness.

Somebody connected with a "great educational and national
undertaking " will organise a grand fete and display of fireworks.

Somebody (in many parts of the Empire) will want to present an
Address.

Somebody will invent a new condiment, and will call it " The
Prince's Indian Pickle."

Somebody will do a great deal of loyal addressing, wound up by
a great deal of loyal eating and drinking, in honour of His Royal
Highness's safe return.

Somebody will expect a Knighthood.

Somebody will send as subject for a Cartoon for Punch, Britannia
seated on a lion, saying, " How-dah do ? " to His Royal Highness
mounted on an elephant.

Somebody will have a lifelong grievance against Punch if the
above excellent suggestion is not acted upon immediately.

Somebody (equally well known as "nobody") will consider it
his duty to attend the levee of His Royal Highness.

Somebody will mob the Prince the first time His Royal Highness
appears in public.

Somebody will begin holding balls now that the Prince's return
has given the signal for the real commencement of the Season.
_ Somebody (owning a sewing-machine) will set to work with a
lighter heart now that there is a prospect of brisk employment.

And, lastly, everybody bearing the English name and speaking
the English tongue will be delighted to welcome the Prince back to
his own again. Vivant Pegina et Princeps !

ELEGY ON A LATELY DECEASED WHISTLING OYSTER.

Dear native ! He measured six inches across,

And he whistled in answer to me.
Where'er shall I find, to make up for his loss,

So unselfish a shell-fish as he !
Spite of dredgers destructive he clung to the bed

Whereof from the spat he was reared,
And a true native lived, though he still, it was said,

Like a foreigner breathed through his beard.
How he sang, my brave bivalve ! Molluscous of throat,

He could run up his scales clean to C,
A true Oyster-Patti—he reached as high note,

Though not quite as high L. S. D.
But one day my sweet native was torn from his bed,

A bran-new Aquarium to grace,
Where being the first to arrive, the red-lead

Of the glaziers' work settled his case !
My mollusc, he died in a week, sad to tell,

Leaving me, his best friend, to repine;
And Frank Buckland's kind hand closed him up in his shell,

And embalmed him in spirits of wine !

For the Council of the R.A.—" Give a dog a bad name—and
don't hang him."

Shorthand Notes on the Easter Pieces.

Struck Oil. So it has all who have seen it—as good.
The Great Divorce Case. Decree excellent.
Jo. Hence these weeps!

Miss Gwilt. Pork chops and Welsh rarebit for supper.
Queen Mary. Quite contrary.

Wrinkles. " Time writes no wrinkles," nor can Mr. H. J. Byron.
The Sultan of Mocha. Not only promises, but performs better
than another Sultan.

Stem to Stern. Wants inspection by Mr. Plimsoll.
A Lesson in Love. Take one.

Topics Last Week.—" Atalanta's Pace" and the Two Thousand
Guineas.